


Wretched Love

by IndigoDream



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Being immortal sucks, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Canon, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, god jaskier, lots of fluff tho, love god jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:49:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23917069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: Strangely enough, it is not only Geralt whom Ciri helps saving from himself, but also Jaskier.The story goes like this--Jaskier left that mountain with no hopes of seeing his Witcher again. Say what you want, Jaskier knows the truth behind his thoughts -- for how much he had trailed after Geralt, the Witcher had always waited for him. There hadn't always been kindness, nearly always been an absence of honey words that Jaskier usually relied on, but they had still belonged to each other. The Witcher and his bard. The Bard and his Witcher.--Jaskier is Love, but he doesn't always want to be. After what Geralt told him on the mountain, Jaskier really doesn't want to be Love anymore. Life has other plans.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 113
Kudos: 811





	Wretched Love

**Author's Note:**

> Wooohhoooo BOY 
> 
> I have been working on this baby... For a little while!! I'm so happy to be finally sharing it, because I am so proud of it :') It's my baby, and I have very strong feelings for it!
> 
> Be warned though, Jaskier does have moment where he wishes to be dead, however. I didn't put it in the tags because it's not overly present, but he is in self-destructive spiral for the beginning of the story. It gets better pretty fast though :D there is a hell of a lot of fluff in this one, and I'll admit that Geralt is very soft and that perhaps is ooc but -- my fic my rules
> 
> Enjoy :D

Strangely enough, it is not only Geralt whom Ciri helps saving from himself, but also Jaskier. 

The story goes like this-- 

Jaskier left that mountain with no hopes of seeing his Witcher again. Say what you want, Jaskier knows the truth behind his thoughts for how much he had trailed after Geralt, the Witcher had always waited for him. There hadn't always been kindness, nearly always been an absence of honey words that Jaskier usually relied on, but they had still belonged to each other. The Witcher and his bard. The Bard and his Witcher. 

He left that mountain empty. He grabbed his belongings from the camp, said goodbye to Roach, and walked away from the life he had led for the past twenty years. 

_What they don't tell you when you are born immortal is that the sickness of the heart comes before the sickness of the body._

He loses himself again slowly. There had been a time when he had loved, loved with so much passion that the world had felt brighter. He had felt it again with Geralt, for a brief moment, for a glimpse of time. Twenty years are nothing in the life of a god. They are just a blink of time when eternity stretches out languidly, a dream within a sea of nightmares. 

Jaskier remembers when he had Loved. He remembers when he had been loved. The feeling now slips from his fingers, and the world turns bleak, sorrowful, and there is nothing that brings him joy— 

_Lovers, twirling on their wedding days, laughter bright on their lips. Children chasing after the local dog, full of joy and love. A painter, quietly admiring their own work, satisfaction running through their veins._

Jaskier finds himself on a path he thought he had left twenty years before. He finds himself seeking them, those he had thought he would never see again. Yennefer of Vengerberg had been no different from the other mages he had met before. The love in them was not his Love. They were not his people, not his servants, not his chosen children. They saw him as a weakness, they thought him a commodity. Yennefer had been no different. And yet… 

The face he wears when he reaches the mage — not Yennefer, not again, not after Geralt — is older than his face as Jaskier. He isn’t Jaskier, he is Narcyz, wilted flower left to die as it admires itself. His hands are still made for music, and he cradles in his arms a rock the mage has been looking for. It is said to have been blessed, long ago, to be imbued with chaos. It is not, but Jaskier will not tell the mage so. Chaos is the plaything of mortals, and the gods do not care for it. If there is chaos in a stone, then it is a result from another mage. Not a god. The mage does not need to know; he does not love, so Love doesn’t love him either. 

“How do you kill a god?” Jaskier asks, his hands — Narcyz’s hands right now, wrinkled and covered in brown marks that betray an advanced age — cupped around a glass of warm tea. It should burn his throat, send him coughing and spitting. It does not. 

The mage, old and supposedly powerful, laughs. “You can’t kill a god, old man. You’re foolish to even think so.” 

So Jaskier leaves. The mage does not love, so Love leaves him, and an unhappiness will always be over the house of the mage. He will be devoured by doubts, eaten away by a desire to reach out and touch, but he will never be able to do so. That is the curse of letting Love go, of displeasing It; you can never regain it, can never fully understand it again, unless Love reaches out again to you. 

Jaskier does not intend to leave his curse over the mage, but his magic does it anyway. He is more magic than man nowadays, and he is slowly unravelling. He had been so close to humanity, had nearly felt his silent heart beating when he had been next to Geralt. Now, it is a rock again in his chest, heavy and harsh in his chest. 

His curse does not affect Geralt. Jaskier, despite the heartbreak, despite the loss of what he had thought could be a good life, would never forgive himself if he hurt Geralt. Love cannot hurt the only one he has truly loved in the last century. Love cannot condemn himself to a life of solitude again. So Love does what Love knows best; he suffers. 

“How do you kill a god?” Jaskier demands, blue eyes drilling into the charming mage’s, who is all clever hands and exposed throat. They wouldn’t be so far from a god, he almost lets himself thinks, if they didn’t reek of chaos and humanity. 

Love leaves them much like the previous one. They claw at their face in despair, forget themself in the name of a doomed love. They do not know, they cannot know, that love is tangible. That Love had sat at their table, touched their hand, and loathed them the whole time. They cannot understand that a god touched them, and that they were doomed from the moment they let laughter pearl out of their mouth. 

“How do you kill a god?” 

Laughter is followed by a choke, familiarity crashing away from her reality. The mage had been reputed to be bright, powerful. Not as much as Yennefer, but Jaskier will never go to Yennefer’s home, will never seek her out. He doesn’t hate her, doesn’t resent her. She is not his to resent. But she has shut love out of his life; so Love shuts her out of his. 

“How do you kill a god?” Thunder crashing, terror in eyes struck by lightning. 

Flashes of joy, potions spilled over a table that sizzles and burns. “How do you kill a god?” 

“How do you kill a god?” Dry summer heat, air crackling with fear. 

“You don’t,” the mage answers, her eyes downcast, the weight of the world of her shoulders. She is old, too old to still be part of this world. She lives in mountains, far away from anyone else. It had taken Jaskier three months to find her. She is a mage, and yet she Loves. 

Her movement carries a grace that he is willing to recognize as belonging to his children. She manipulates chaos, but she does not relish in it the way others have. She is a kind soul, and Love likes kind souls. When Jaskier had entered her hut, she had served him biscuits and a cup of sweet wine. Almost as if she had been waiting for him. 

Maybe she had. 

“How do you kill a god?” His voice is desperate now; he has lost track of how many times he asked this question, how many times he has lost his temper when he had been met with scorn and rejection. Love is many thing, Love is a fool, Love is bigger than life, but Love is also vengeful. Jaskier hadn’t meant to leave his curse on all those mages, but the slow roar of satisfaction had run through him when he had realized what he had done. He hasn’t lifted the curses. 

“You can’t,” she says this time, almost tenderly. Her eyes are clouded with old age, her movements slow and deliberate. She has given up the immortality of the mage for the comforts of growing old.

“Please,” he begs for the first time, no longer Love but Jaskier, so desperate, so afraid. “How do you kill a god?” 

Gently, the sorceress reaches out, and when her hand settle on his cheek, Jaskier does not breathe anymore. 

“There is no way to kill you, my darling Love,” she says reverently. “You are in all of us, and you have given us all pieces of yourself. You cannot gather all the pieces of yourself, and you do not want to. Love cannot die, it can only be forgotten.” 

He leans into her touch, inexplicably. He forgets all his worries, and closes his eyes. He lets her touch give him what he needs to continue the wretched mistake that is life. 

_He is ten, so young and yet so old. He can see the strain between his parents, can see the way they fizzle and hum, like two fireflies caught on burning embers. Jaskier isn't Jaskier yet, he is Julian, son of Laeticia and Eryos. They are delightfully human, so starkly different from him. He knows already what he is. He is Love, the one thing his parents cannot give each other or him. They love, but not him or the other._

_"Stop that!" His mother yells at him, snatching away from his hands the little stone he carries in his pocket. It helps him See better, when he focuses on it. She hates it. She hates him, some days, hates that he is not the son she wanted. Julian is Love, not Hate, but he knows when He is missing from the heart of another. He feels the void of it when he reaches out and touches her hand, and she retreats, almost in disgust._

_"Sorry mama," he answers. He isn’t though, not really._

_He is a hundred and twenty-three, old and young, not Jaskier yet, but soon he’ll be, soon he’ll Love nothing anymore. He is laying in bed, warm and content, tenderness running through him like it always does. The woman besides him, he loves her. He wedded her five decades ago, and he has not aged a bit. She has, but she assures him that he does not need to change for her sake. He sees the looks when they walk about though, feels the way their love recoils and shrivels away at the sight of the woman and her husband. She hates it, hates him somedays. He doesn’t even blame her._

_He is six hundred and forty-two. His last lover, the last one he is willing to give himself over, has just died. He had been a being made of so much Love it had choked Jaskier some days. It had burnt his throat and made him cry, the way gentle hands would caress him and reassure him. He is Jaskier now, but some days he isn’t, and that’s all fine. Somedays, he is just Love, crawling within corners and giving Himself over to the ungrateful world. Right now, he is Jaskier, not Love, and he cries until his human body crumbles under him, until he is dragged away from the body by men stronger than they should be._

_Those men are the first ones Love ever cursed._

He reopens his eyes and the old witch is smiling, bittersweet and full of pain. She saw through him, knows who he is, and that is why Love loves her. That is why, when Love leaves her house, she feels the warmth of happiness rushing through her as the plants she has been tending to, nursing so carefully, bloom back to full health. Love can also bless those who bless him. 

Love wishes he could curse his own self, but Love cradles Jaskier in his palm and Jaskier holds Love close to his heart. Love and Jaskier are one, even if sometimes they feel like two different entities. 

Jaskier wanders down that mountain, alone again, and he touches the trees, lets their branches brush over his shoulders as he stretches himself bigger than the world. He feels everyone’s love, feels all their tenderness and hate and all the other feelings they attribute to Love. He feels their guilt and their shame, their anger and rage. 

He crumbles to his knees, sobbing. There is nothing anymore he can do, nothing anymore he can say to himself that will fix the way his heart is broken. It’s been a year, maybe two, maybe even five or so, he doesn’t know anymore. Love is forgotten, slowly. Love should die, he tells himself, tries to kill the God within. But he cannot. 

He has forgotten what it is to be human, what it is to need food or drink, and he has forgotten what it means to be Jaskier — not Love, just Jaskier, human, beautiful singing Jaskier — when a soft hand touches his hair. 

“You need to come back to us,” the old woman says, and she sits next to him, gentle and yet reckless. She is a mage though, and she has been blessed by him, so she does not feel the fear of the gods that others may. “Travel down that path, child, and learn again what it means to be Love. Learn again what it means to be yourself, and learn again what it means to be human.” 

“I cannot,” he chokes the words out, throat sore and painful. It is not words, it is closer to the heart shattering sound of rocks crashing at the bottom of a cliff. It is terrible, and yet, it fills all that hears it with awe. Love can also be that gentle feeling that rocks one’s chest when they hear nature and gods battling. It is a quiet worship in the stormy night. 

“You can. Your Destiny is waiting for you at the end of the path, child.” Her voice is so old, he forgets that she should be a human, should fear him. She should not be calling him child. 

“You—“ he starts off, water breaking the icy surface of its winter coat, but her hands are on his mouth. 

There is a way to know a God when you meet One. It is not their eyes, it is not their voices, it is not even their magic. Most people will miss it, will not even know what they are looking at. The mortal’s eye is not meant to see it. Even the creatures of this world, be they elves or dryads, filled with chaos to the brim or devoid of any place where time can latch onto, cannot see it, unless they seek it. A God may even miss it. 

Here is how Jaskier knows: her hands are on his mouth, and he feels the quiet dampening of moss in the morning. Her hands reach to him, and he feels the autumn leaves crackling under his feet. The mage is not mage, she is one of Them, one of those who wanders along the world, always on the edge of it, never fully integrated. She is not Love, she is Life. She is beautiful and terrible, and wretched and sweet. She is older than the world itself, and she is older than him, and he falls in her lap with a painful cry wrenched from his throat. She is the Mother. 

He leaves her behind, and he walks down the path. It is a sunny day, and the warmth rushes back through his limbs. He feels more human now, more of himself, more of Love. He is Love, and he isn’t human, but he is at the same time. A human that cannot die. 

Gold light and laughter are the first things he sees when he enters the meadow. And then there is the soft sliding sound of swords being unsheathed, an almost-human growl, before a soft, recognizing breath. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice, and Geralt himself, standing in the middle of the clearing, flowers half-threaded through his hair, a girl hiding behind him. 

—

He is so beautiful, even now. Why? Why must Jaskier’s heart, why must his Love crave the Witcher, crave his touch and his affection? The Witcher’s eyes are pure liquid gold, and his face is astonished, like he is seeing a ghost. His swords clatter to the ground, and suddenly Jaskier is not standing anymore, he is being lifted, being hugged and almost crushed in the man’s arms. 

“What happened to you,” Geralt demands— not asks, demands, voice worried and isn’t that a nice change of pace?

Jaskier, now back on the ground, looks at himself, for the first time in months. He is covered in dirt, moss clinging to his pants desperately, and his hands are covered in bits of dried blood. The curses are bubbling on his skin, drawing on his powers as he keeps adding to them without even meaning to. 

“Love,” he whispers, and Geralt almost startles at his voice. “Love happened to me.” 

Confusion fills Geralt’s eyes, but he doesn’t ask more. He brings Jaskier to the centre of the meadow, where the girl is sitting again, her hands fidgeting with flowers. She is the one who was embellishing Geralt then. 

When Jaskier sits down, she looks up at him with green eyes that hide a cleverness, something shrewd and powerful. She Loves, more than he thought a child could, but she is also filled with chaos, and that would almost scare him. Instead, it fills him with awe.

“I’m Ciri,” she says quietly. 

“The Child Surprise,” Jaskier says, and Geralt winces, but Ciri nods. She doesn’t know his normal voice, she doesn’t remember it lilting and teasing the way Geralt does. “Pleased to meet you.” 

“You are the bard Geralt talks about, aren’t you?” She tilts her head to the side. “The one he left before trying to find me.” 

So Geralt had sought her out, rather than simply wait for destiny to take it in hands. Well. Perhaps. Jaskier doesn’t even know when they found each other, doesn’t know how long it has been since the mountain. 

“Is that what he says?” Gold eyes fill with guilt when Jaskier looks at him, and he feels pain stabbing him again. The words wash over him again, and he can hear all over again Geralt’s yelling. 

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” Harsh words for a harsh man going against the current of Love. 

Ironically, it is Life that has brought Jaskier back to Geralt. There is no wondering if she meant it, after all, she ordered him to walk the path to him. 

“Yes,” Geralt brings Jaskier back to the present, “it is the bard I drove away with my anger.” 

“Well then, you should take the opportunity to apologize.” Ciri smiles at Geralt, and he almost glares at her, but she is too sweet. He loves her, Jaskier can feel it now. He can feel the love pouring out of Geralt now. 

The last time he had felt Love from someone that way had been long before Geralt. He had fallen out of love with them all, and had shut them all out, when they had claimed that Love moved them to murder each other. That Love was the holy protection that could keep Destiny off their hearts. Jaskier would never go against Destiny. She is more powerful than he is, and bows only to Life. Everyone bows to Life, even Death. 

To feel that love again, it warms him up to the core. It is individual and tender, like a gentle current of water running its course down a field of sunflowers on a summer day. To feel it from Geralt, towards a girl he had rejected when she hadn’t even been born? It brings tears to his eyes. 

“Shit,” Geralt swears and comes to crouch in front of Jaskier. “Are you hurt? I’m sorry for what I said back then, why are you crying? Are you wounded?” 

Ciri looks a bit confused too, but she doesn’t look half as panicked as Geralt does, and then it hits Jaskier, like a bolt through the stomach. The love he feels from Geralt isn’t just from Ciri. There is something different, something dark and burning that reaches out to Jaskier. Geralt Loves. And what Geralt Loves is Jaskier. How ironic, Jaskier thinks as more tears fall down his cheeks. He hiccups and sobs, and finally, he lets the pain flood him. Geralt may love him, but it doesn’t mend the bruised heart in his chest. The heart that hasn’t beat in centuries is not going to be healed by simple feelings. Jaskier needs more, and he wishes he didn’t, but he does.

“No wound,” Jaskier hiccups in between two sobs, stopping Geralt from touching his hands. “Just happy.” 

The flowers are slowly falling out of Geralt’s hair, so Jaskier gently replaces them as the witcher stares at him in confusion. Ciri joins in, quiet, and Geralt sits back on the ground, confused but willing to let himself be a doll for his daughter and his bard. It is a strange sort of afternoon from then on. Ciri asks Jaskier questions, quiet but happy, and he answers, his voice a low rumble that’s slowly coming back to what it used to be. She doesn’t seem to care that his hands are covered in red and yellow marks, that his eyes are rimmed red with tears. 

Geralt listens. He listens and learns, and at some point, when Ciri is off gathering more flowers, not deeming that Geralt’s hair had been filled enough, he turns to Jaskier. 

“I am sorry,” he whispers in a low rumble. “I don’t know what happened to you while we were… separated, but I would appreciate if you travelled with Ciri and me. You’re free to part from our way whenever you want, of course, but… I would like to travel with you once again.” 

Jaskier smiles slowly, and Geralt revels in the gesture. It is so strange to feel that love coming from Geralt. Jaskier isn’t fully well yet; Love is still suffering, still not made good again, but there is a fight for it in his chest, for the first time in centuries. When he had met Geralt, he had _thought_ he would get better, but it had not. He had not tried to make it happen. He had wanted Geralt to fix him, he had wanted Geralt to save him from himself, but Jaskier can’t be saved by anyone else but himself. Life granted him a gift by making him find Geralt again. He has a chance to start over, to help his own self. 

Ciri comes back before Jaskier can answer, and her grin indicates that she has heard what Geralt said. She is a cunning girl, not yet fifteen, her hair cut around her shoulders and giving her face a nice frame. She is filled with chaos, but she is also filled with love, and Jaskier wonders how such a harmonious human being can exist. 

“You need new clothes,” she observes when they are done treading flowers through Geralt’s hair, the white contrasted with blue and purple flowers, and the occasional poppy. “Yours are all torn off, and you really look like you need a bath as well.” 

He chuckles, almost back to his normal self. “Usually, that kind of comment isn’t directed at me.” 

“Oh, you mean that Geralt is usually not a good smelling, charming man?” She grins and the witcher levels her a low glare. “Why, count me surprised! I would have thought him to be always beautifully dressed and pleasant man.” 

Laughter fills the air as Jaskier throws his head back. “Fiery girl.” 

“I try my best,” she smiles again. “We should head to town tomorrow morning. Geralt wanted to scout for a contract anyway, see if he can get us some coin to sleep in an actual inn for once.” 

“You don’t enjoy sleeping outside? Now that surprises me,” Geralt teases a bit, and Jaskier realizes with warmth that they aren’t just a witcher and his apprentice, they are a family. “But yes. We will head to town in the morning. You can borrow some of my clothes in the meantime.” 

His last words are directed at Jaskier. His eyes are still racking over the bard — _former bard? Jaskier doesn’t know, he hasn’t sung in so long, he misses the music, misses his lute, where did he leave it_ — and making sure there are no injuries, but he keeps coming back to Jaskier’s hands. 

When Love curses, Love hurts himself as well. Unconscious curses are the brightest evidence of it, because he cannot control the way they will affect his body. Of course, now he could break the curses, let go of them, let the mages he has ensnarled in his magic be free, but he doesn’t quite want to, not just yet. They laughed at him, they mocked his pain, stole from him and refused to help him. They do not deserve Love’s forgiveness, and so they will not get it. Perhaps, when Jaskier feels more than twinges of love, he will cut the curses down. Slow them down. Maybe. 

“We’ll go to a healer too,” Geralt says, tone not exactly but almost choked up. Like he can’t stand to see Jaskier in what he believes is pain. How can Jaskier even begin to tell him that there is no pain in his hands? He feels fine, just diminished. The hurt the curses cause is only because of his human body. If he let himself be Love all the time, he would not feel it. 

“It’ll be fine,” Jaskier says. “No need for a healer.” 

“But your hands—“ 

“Don’t need a healer’s attention,” Jaskier says, sharper than he intended to, but he doesn’t apologize, simply softens his tone again. “I’ll be alright. I don’t need attention on my hands, they are just fine. Will you trust me on that?” 

Geralt looks torn for a second, like he wants to protest, to insist that Jaskier goes to see a healer, but he nods in the end. The tension that had risen at Jaskier’s snapping dissolves, and Geralt rises, hair still covered in flowers, to go get their meal for the night. 

“He doesn’t know you aren’t human,” Ciri says quietly while he is gone. “Doesn’t he?” 

“How did you know?” Jaskier asks, surprised. No one has understood it by themselves in at least a hundred years, if not more, and he wonders how a teenager can know. 

“Your voice,” she shrugs, and then keeps going. “It’s not a human voice. It feels… warm, and terrible too? Like everything I’ve ever loved, and everything I’ve ever lost. Your hands, too. It’s not a sickness, and I don’t feel any residue of chaos on it.” 

“You’re quite the observant girl, aren’t you? Geralt must be very proud.” 

“He is. What are you then? I don’t recognize you from any of the non-human beings, and you clearly aren’t a creature or a monster.” 

He laughs softly, and his fingers itch to play some music. Instead, he taps them on his knee, lets the rhythm of it lull him into speaking more, into telling her. It frightens him, to be so honest with a girl he doesn’t know, with a child so much younger than him. 

“I’m a god. Or well. I have a god in me, that is also me? It’s a bit of a complicated concept. I can be the god, and I can be Jaskier, and I can be both.” 

“Which one are you right now then?” She tilts her head to the side, the fire she has been tending to warming her skin in a light glow. “The god, Jaskier, or both?” 

“Funnily enough,” he huffs, “I don’t know myself. I’ve locked the god away for so long that it almost hurts to be him again. But I would probably say I am both then. If not in equal measures, I know that this,” he lifts his hands, “is proof enough that the god is still present and fighting with me.” 

“What kind of god are you?” She doesn’t seem disturbed by his revelations. “You must be a really old and powerful one, isn’t it?” 

“Old, yes. Powerful, I don’t really know. I am Love, if you must know. All kinds of love are mine to feel and cherish and protect. Romantic, familial, every day love… I can feel them all, feed them or not. I don’t have to tend to them for the feelings to exist. My presence in the world is enough.” 

“Is that why you look so…” she hesitates on the words, pursing her lips slightly. “So unlike the description Geralt gave of you?” 

“What did he say I looked like?” The curiosity in his voice isn’t missed by the girl, her green eyes shining with a cunning light. 

“Fancy. Beautiful too. Always well dressed. A man loved by everyone.” 

Jaskier barks a laugh. Of course Geralt would say that when he thinks he’ll never see Jaskier again. He would never have complimented Jaskier to his face, but to his adoptive daughter? He apparently sang the bard’s praise. 

“Are you saying I don’t look like a man loved by everyone right now?” 

“No,” she says, her voice carrying a sadness that almost chills him as her green eyes stare into his blue ones. “I think you look like a man who was so hated that he forgot what it meant to be loved. I think you look like someone who could use some love. And I find it sad. You are Love, aren’t you? Love shouldn’t be hated, and Love shouldn’t ever forget what it is to be loved.” 

He chokes on his breath when she says this, and tears falls again. Her love is so pure, so strong and it radiates from her so strongly that he can’t help the overwhelming emotions coming over him. 

“Thank you,” he says with a weak smile, and she comes closer slowly, and then her arms are around him. 

The hug is gentler than the bone crushing one Geralt had given him at the beginning of the day. Ciri is softer, and she isn’t afraid, and she _knows_. Her chaos is lesser than her love, and that is why she is so different from the mages Jaskier has met. 

“Thank you,” he repeats when she moves back. “You are quite the brilliant child.” 

“I’m nearly fifteen,” she says, some offence in her voice, but the effect is lessened by the gentleness of her eyes. “I just don’t think it’s fair. The way you are being treated, it’s not fair. I know Geralt isn’t exactly… The most easy loving man, but he does his best with me. I don’t think he treated you just right in the past, he carries too much guilt for him to not have done at least something wrong, but he doesn’t frown on love.” 

“Oh, he has frowned on love many, many times,” Jaskier laughs and she grins. “Most of our friendship is based on him frowning, to be quite honest.” 

“He is quite the frowner, isn’t he? He is going to get wrinkles if he keeps going like that.” She giggles and lets her head fall on his shoulder. “Will you come with us then?” 

“I think I will,” he smiles gently and leans his head on hers. “Even if only to see how such a marvellous girl like you can handle our dear Geralt.” 

When Geralt comes back, they are still leaning against each other like this, and the love that overwhelms him makes Jaskier shivers with its intensity. He needs to get used to it again, if his powers are coming back to him. If he is going to be both, Jaskier and Love, working together in his body, he needs to get used to the surges of love from the people around him. At least until he can shut them out again. 

The evening passes slowly, the summer night warm and lending itself to stories. Jaskier shares some of his adventures with Geralt, regularly interrupted by the witcher, and Ciri tells him of her own with Geralt. It’s a good evening, and Jaskier falls asleep close to the fire, Geralt having given him his bedroll for the night. 

The gesture had almost made Jaskier’s frozen heart beat. 

Jaskier wears an extra shirt of Geralt’s in the morning, but there are no extra pants for him to borrow, so he simply shrugs and walks with his moss-covered trousers. Ciri catches his arm, looping it with her own, and Jaskier loves her a little more for this. She is sweet and kind, but he sees the rough edges underneath, sees the steel in her standing as they walk into town and people stare at them. They are a weird looking trio, Jaskier has to admit. He looks half-dead with his outfit and hands, Geralt’s white hair and broad stature make him recognizable, and Ciri is a sharp looking girl with a sword dangling from her waist. 

“I’ll get us rooms at the inn,” Geralt says and looks at Ciri. “Take care of him in the meantime.” 

“Will do,” she nods and stirs Jaskier away from the inn. “Alright, clothing first and then some stuff for your bath, mister Love.” 

Jaskier turns briefly to see Geralt looking at them before he gets his attention back to the teenager leading him away. As they walk together, Jaskier feels whiffs of love, whispers of tenderness and gentleness. He feels a child giggling in delight at the way a butterfly flies around her, hears the kisses exchanged between two lovers in a dark alley. It warms him more than the summer sun does. He is slowly regaining himself back. 

He sorts out his clothes easily enough. He pays the tailor handsomely for a fast work, and grabs some pants that he can wear for the rest of the day, as well as a pair of gloves. When Ciri questions how he can pay, he shrugs softly. 

“My magic doesn’t come from chaos the way yours do. There once was a time where people left all kinds of gift at altars for me throughout the whole continent, and even beyond. I just…” He shrugs a bit as he opens the door to the perfumery. “Take what is mine and bring it to reality.” 

“Could you teach me?” She looks genuinely interested and he laughs slightly. 

“Maybe. But I think your chaos might prevent you from it. You’re also human, so that might prevent you further.” He hasn’t ever _tried_ to teach anyone how his powers work, mostly because there is something of a mystery to himself as well. He is not the god of knowledge, for his defence. 

She hums slightly and starts walking around the shop. She has the same habits that Jaskier remembers seeing from Geralt, the rare times the witcher had accompanied him. Sticking to the cheaper, less perfumed items, ones that might irritate the skin but that wouldn’t cost them too much. He grabs her elbow and stirs her to the counter, where a girl, maybe a year older than Ciri, is sitting, looking deep in thoughts. 

“Excuse me, miss?” Jaskier asks and the girl startles. Her skin is dark and her eyes too. She’s pretty, and when her eyes settle on them both, there is a slight rise in her pulse. Jaskier resists the urge to grin. 

“My… daughter,” he looks at Ciri, who shrugs, “and I are looking for some products. Hopefully you can help us?” 

“Absolutely,” the girl nods. “I’m Nora, what are you looking for?” 

“Ciri, why don’t you tell her about it? I’m going to look around on my own. And don’t you mind the price,” he insists with a press to her shoulder. “I’m good for it.” 

She gives him a suspicious look, but when she looks back at Nora, her own heartbeat increases slightly. “Fine, dad.” The way she says that last word make it difficult for him to hold back a chuckle and he winks as he leaves the two girls talking together. 

He wanders through the shop quietly, his mind calm for the first time in a long time. It feels strange, to be back with humans after some time apart, but it also feels good. He picks at items, sometimes crossing paths with the two girls, who are laughing softly together at regular intervals. It makes him softly to himself, when he sees Ciri like this. She clearly hasn’t had an easy life, that he can see from the set of her shoulders when they walk outside to the way her hand hasn’t really left the hilt of her sword since they walked into town. But here, with a pretty girl, she is letting loose. She knows Jaskier is around, and she knows that the girl isn’t any threat, so she allows herself some downtime. Jaskier is proud of her for that. 

Geralt had never truly allowed himself downtime, not even when he had been with Yennefer. Sure, Jaskier had been a bit too busy being pitiful and miserable about Geralt loving her to really make sure of what the witcher and the sorceress felt for each other. It didn’t really matter if he checked or not, in the end, because he could see the hard set of Geralt’s jaw, the way his shoulders stayed drawn and tense. Jaskier knew Geralt more than he knew himself back then, and he knows that he had never truly seen the witcher relaxed until the day before, when Ciri and Jaskier had been braiding his hair. 

Love is not such a fickle thing, after all, Jaskier thinks. People have always said of Love that he does not hold on for long, that he is found rarely, but Jaskier knows the truth: they do not want Love. They sought something else. Power, Lust, and a hundred others that Love is not. Love is steady, a river that never dries. The fleeting love that delights and enchants are also His to rule over, but they are instants in someone’s life. To choose Love is to choose more than fleeting instants. 

Jaskier never had a choice. Even if he did have a choice though, he thinks as he picks up some rose oil, the delicate fragrance enveloping him in a tender memory of a royal garden, he would still have chosen it. At least he thinks so; he’ll never really be sure. The wound that Love has caused him might still be raw and open, feeling the loves around him, knowing that the world has not truly forgotten Him makes him quite happy. There is still some worth in this world of theirs. 

“Did you find everything you wanted?” Nora is back at his side, Ciri behind her with a smile. “Your daughter and I made a selection for you and your husband, but if there is anything that interests you else, please let me know?” 

He nearly drops the bottle of rose oil at the words _your husband_. Ciri sees that and she smirks. 

“My fathers are quite shy about their affection to one another,” she says slyly, “They’ve been separated for quite some time and they are trying to find back their footing. I’m sure a few gifts would do them wonders, and you’ve been so helpful Nora.” 

She directs a sunny smile at the girl, whose eyes shine happily. It’s actually quite cute, how the two of them are dancing around each other. 

“Did you two pick any chamomile oil?” At Ciri’s slightly confused look, he shrugs. “Geralt likes the smell of those and they tend to have relaxing properties.” 

Her smirk is back in full. “We’ll be sure to pick that up then.” 

He rolls his eyes at her fondly and Nora giggles slightly at their antics. She seems to be getting along great with Ciri, and maybe it’d go even smoother if he happened not to be there. 

“I’m going to go get my clothes back from the tailor now,” he tells her and sees how disappointment fills her eyes slowly. “Why don’t you stay here some more, pick things that you would like? I’ll meet you at the inn, I have some more things I would like to buy.” 

She looks suspicious and about to decline, but then she catches sight of Nora again, and looks back at Jaskier. “You sure you’ll be okay out there?” 

“I’m not defenceless, young lady,” he says and messes her hair. “I’ll be alright. Your father won’t come for your skin if you let me out of your sight for a handful of minutes. Or more.” 

She sighs, bites her lips, clearly torn between her duty and what she really wants to do. “But you just came back and—“ 

“And I want to spoil my family,” he says, doing his best not to stumble on the word, so unfamiliar despite the warmth they cause in his chest. “Won’t you let me do so?” 

After some more convincing and a large amount of money for any purchase Ciri would like to make, in this shop or elsewhere, Jaskier manages to leave. As the door closes, he feels a rush of nervous trepidation from both girls, and he chuckles to himself. 

He takes some time going to the tailor. He stops at a baker, purchasing a few rolls of sweet bread he knows Geralt and Ciri will enjoy, and buys himself a new bedroll and blanket. He is finally going back to the tailor when he sees what he truly wants, what his heart has sorely missed since his departure from Geralt’s side. 

In a finely decorated shop, a beautiful lute is sitting in the window. The shop has a carefully crafted panel that announces it as the home of music in the town, and Jaskier can’t stop himself: he walks in. 

“Might I help you, sir?” An old man is immediately at his side, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” 

“That lute,” Jaskier says, his voice barely a whisper. He feels Love stirring inside of him, the Love of music and people and entertainment that he had always allowed to guide him through the world. He needs that Love. 

He tries again, voice stronger. “The lute, at the window. I would like to try the sound of it.” 

The man, taking in his appearance, winces slightly. “Perhaps I can interest you in another of our—“ 

“No.” The voice of Love is terrible, and yet beautiful, and Jaskier can see the way it sends the elderly man reeling. “I want to try that lute.” 

“Of course,” the man bows his head slightly, and it isn’t terror that comes from him, but something so close Jaskier could mistake it. “I’ll get it for you right away.”

The urge to play is so strong, the need for it almost overwhelming him. He has always known his greatest love was music, but this only confirms it. Now that he has it within reach, he wants to grab the Love by the hand and let it guide him. He needs it so badly he almost aches for it in the few seconds it takes for the old man to get the lute and bring it to him. 

“Here you go, sir,” the man says, extending the lute with trembling hand. 

Jaskier removes his gloves first, doesn’t let the strangled gasp the old man emits attain him. Curses and magic take their effect on everyone, even when that person doesn’t manipulate chaos the way mages do.

The first touch of the instrument is divine. The lute is man-made, but Jaskier can forgive it that flaw, when he feels the Love that pours out of it. Someone crafted this lute for Love, without even realizing it. The lute has been waiting for Jaskier for years, dust slightly covering its strings, but when Jaskier tugs on one slightly, he can hear the pure sound of it. He feels it reaching his heart and can feel the echo of a beat in his chest. 

Tears are on his cheeks, and the old man looks alarmed, but Jaskier smiles, wider than he has in years. 

“Who made this lute?” He asks, playing another chord, trying to not let Love flow out of him. He doesn’t really know how it would affect people, but it might very well create some unfortunate situations. 

“My daughter,” the man says, looking down. “When she still worked here, sir. Years ago, it was. That’s the last instrument she ever made, and she said it would find its rightful owner on its own.” 

“May I have it then?” Jaskier caresses the instrument with reverence. “Your daughter poured all her love in this lute, and it is the most beautiful instrument that I have ever held.” _More beautiful than Filavandrel’s lute_ , he thinks. “I promise, it would be in good hands with me.” 

The old man looks at him, and Jaskier wonders how he is seen, for the first time since he left Geralt, he wonders if his appearance matters this much. His hands are a proof of a curse, or at the very least an illness, and his clothing is not fitting. His hair is a mess, and he probably still has dirt stuck to his face. But still, he is a god. He is Love. And he already can feel the way the lute begs to be played, to be used by his hands. If he leaves it here, it will never be picked up again. This was made for his hands, and only his hands. 

“Of course, sir,” the old man bows after a few minutes of silent consideration. “If you would follow me, I will get a case for you, and you’ll be able to pay for it.” 

Jaskier’s breathing, an unnecessary yet amusing habit he picked up from humans, comes back to normal pattern as he hears this, and when he gets up, there is more gold coin than is necessary in his pockets. He knows the value of good things, and this is a godly instrument. If he has to leave gold in odd places to feel satisfied with himself, than he will do it. Love should be a reward, not a punishment. 

He pays for his lute, almost forces the old man to accept all the gold he gives him, and when he steps back outside, he feels something tugging at his heart. He feels alive, and Love flourishes around him. He blesses the shop without even knowing. The old man will always find people to listen to the stories of his children in their youth, and his estranged grandson will soon come to him, to learn the art of working wood into instruments. Love blossoms in small places, and Jaskier will always be there to encourage it. 

Returning to the inn after getting all his clothes from the tailor fills him with some anxiety, as well as joy at the idea of rest. He is a bit out of things after everything that happened, but the fear that Geralt will look at him differently, that he will _know_ about Love somehow, beats in his chest.

Jaskier isn’t an idiot. He knows he loves Geralt, knows he would probably still throw himself into death willingly if it meant that the witcher was safe, and he _knows_ that Geralt holds some affection for him. He wouldn’t have asked him to come with them, otherwise. And Jaskier also _felt_ Geralt’s affection, but it is still such a forgotten feeling that he isn’t sure he wants to peer into it further and see whether or not Geralt’s love is the same as Jaskier’s. Or maybe it’s simply that Jaskier doesn’t have the heart to be disappointed, not again. 

He walks in the inn anyway. It barely takes him a second to find Geralt, sitting in a corner table and brooding, surrounded by a few bags that Jaskier recognizes as having the logo of the perfumery. So Ciri came back before him. He doesn’t see her anywhere though, so he isn’t too surprised when Geralt looks up abruptly as he approaches. 

“Finally,” the man grunts, but relief shines in his eyes. 

“Where you afraid I had run away, Geralt?” Jaskier asks and settles across from him with a smile. “I promised Ciri I would travel with you, and I intend on following through that promise.” 

Geralt hums and gestures to the nearest maid, ordering some wine for Jaskier and an ale for himself. The consideration makes Jaskier warm. He prefers his alcohol sweeter than Geralt, and while he could have gone with some ale as well, he is happy that the man remembered,

“You found a new lute I see,” Geralt says, clearly trying to get some conversation going. “Are you sure you’ll be able to play?” 

“I will be,” Jaskier asserts strongly. “I already can. You don’t have to worry about me, Geralt.”

“You disappeared,” Geralt says, looking down. “I asked about you. After what I told you, after getting Ciri… I wanted to apologize. To properly do so. But you were nowhere to be found.” 

The question underneath is clear: _Where were you?_ But Jaskier won’t tell Geralt where he was. He won’t tell him what he did, what he sought. He refuses to. If he did, what would Geralt’s reaction be? Jaskier’s window for honesty, for telling Geralt about his true identity, has been closed for a long time. Perhaps, if the witcher would just notice that he doesn’t age, then that would change, but… Geralt never says anything. So Jaskier doesn’t say anything either, and he languishes in the pain of knowing, one day, Geralt will realize that Jaskier isn’t human. 

“Maybe I didn’t want to be found,” he answers simply, taking a sip of his wine. “Maybe I simply needed some time alone.” 

“Will you tell me what happened to you?” Geralt’s eyes are almost pleading. 

“No.” Jaskier’s answer is strong, and he sighs softly at the hurt that flashes in golden eyes. “You would only blame yourself further if I did, despite my reassurance that I am the only one to blame. And… There are some things I would rather keep to myself. Surely, you must understand that.” 

Geralt hums, but it is a deeply unhappy sound. 

“So, Ciri left all her purchases and left again?” Jaskier asks with a smile. “Can’t believe you would let her out of your sight again.” 

“She is a teenage girl,” Geralt shakes his head with a small smile, “I couldn’t force her to stay in place even if I tried. She did say she had bought some special things for you but I… I didn’t look.” 

Jaskier takes the smaller pouch he is given and opens it curiously. Inside, he finds the rose oil he was looking at earlier, with a small vial of oil, and a note from Ciri. Her neat scrawl almost would make him blush. 

_I’ll be coming back late tonight, perhaps Love could let himself be loved?_

“What is it?” Geralt’s curiosity, despite his earlier implication that he wanted to allow Jaskier his privacy, peeks through his voice. “I hope she didn’t buy anything too foolish.” 

“No,” Jaskier chuckles slightly. “She is a bright girl. Feisty too. You’re quite lucky to have her in your life.” 

“I am,” the witcher smiles again, the gesture illuminating his whole stern face, and Jaskier hates himself a little bit for wanting to reach out and kiss those lips. “She’s been a blessing. A bit of a curse at time too, that’s for sure, but well. She is only a teenager so far.” 

“I’m sure you weren’t much better as a teen yourself. Must have been running around Kaer Morhen wildly, asking to be let out for adventure.” 

He can picture it, a young Geralt, excited to see the world, so full of energy. Nothing like this Geralt, who has seen too much of the world, who has taken too much at heart and who now hides behind an emotionless facade. 

Geralt huffs. “Yes, running wildly. That sounds more like someone else than me,” he answers, looking at Jaskier with a soft smile. “What were you like then, when you were a teenager? Were you running after all the young ladies and lords? Playing and singing until your voice was hoarse?” 

Jaskier laughs then. “It was so long ago, I barely remember it!” He stops himself from saying more as Geralt frowns slightly. “I mean, you know! Twenty years now, isn’t that a long time!” He chuckles a bit nervously, but Geralt isn’t fooled. 

“Jaskier—“ he starts asking, but Jaskier is already standing up and gathering his things. 

“You know, I should really get that bath going now! I’ll have a talk with the innkeeper, you stay here and enjoy your meal! And maybe you’ll have a contract, who knows!” 

Jaskier would like to believe he doesn’t _run_ away from Geralt, but his dignity has sank to a new low, and frankly, he isn’t quite into lying to himself anymore. When he reaches the innkeeper, he smiles widely and demands a bath to be brought to the room Geralt took, and then quickly makes an escape to the room he is indicated towards. 

While a maid fills up the bath, he busies himself with the lute, slowly prying sweet notes from it. He doesn’t sing yet. He is a bit afraid that his voice won’t come back properly. He can still feel Love inside him, agitated and angry at times, needing to scream. But Love is also a gentle, soothing caress along his back, a murmur of reassurance and words of encouragement. 

He slips himself into the water with a delighted sigh. It feels good, and he enjoys the way the water is still a bit too hot, burning his skin for a few minutes before it starts to cool down. And yes, Jaskier knows he shouldn’t use his powers for such selfish reasons, but he really enjoys warm baths and he hasn’t gotten one in so long. He closes his eyes and lets his head rest against the polished wood of the tub. It feels more than good. 

He must have been lulled to sleep, because he wakes up to a hand in his hair, gentle, and the water is cooler than he would like it. He blinks awake, his senses trying to reach out and find who it is. The Love he feels almost overwhelms him. Geralt is there, looking after him. 

“You’re awake,” there is a note of disappointment in Geralt’s voice. “I didn’t mean to disturb your rest.” 

“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep in my bath,” Jaskier says, trying to ignore that he feels flush at the way Geralt’s hand play with his hair. “Did you want to bathe as well? I’ll quickly use the soap and—“ 

Geralt’s hand moves, to gently grab Jaskier’s chin and makes him look at the witcher. “You’re hiding something from me Jaskier. I can see it, and I can see that Ciri knows as well. I won’t ask that you tell me, I don’t have that right anymore. I hurt you, and I will never forgive myself for the words I spoke on that mountain. But I do hope, in time, you will trust me again. Until then, I can only ask permission to stay by your side, the way you have stayed at my side for years.”

There is no resentment in the words, only resignation, and a plea too. Geralt is _begging_ him to be allowed to stay. Jaskier can almost feel the words slipping off his tongue. _I’m Love, Geralt. The physical embodiment of Love. I’m immortal, and you’re never going to lose me, but one day I’ll lose you, again. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to handle it._

Instead, he moves his hand away from the water, lifting it to gently touch Geralt’s face. He lets his fingers feel the stumble there, and the echo of a heartbeat seizes his chest again. 

“Always,” he whispers, afraid of breaking the moment, but needing to reassure Geralt, to let him know that, despite all that has happened, Jaskier feels much the same way. “One day, I swear. One day I will tell you everything.” 

It’s good enough for Geralt, but he stops Jaskier from withdrawing his hand. He captures the ugly, scarred hand of Love, and softly kisses the palm. And Jaskier can’t help it, can’t help his heart from swelling slightly. Another heartbeat. 

“Let me care for you, this once,” Geralt asks, letting go of his hand gently. “Please.” 

Jaskier is so weak, and he has always hated denying himself pleasures, so he nods, and lets Geralt take care of him. Geralt’s hands are strong and a bit rough, but they caress Jaskier’s skin and hair gently, so delicately Jaskier half-wonders if he is only imagining the touch. Geralt washes his hair, gently guiding him in and out of the water. It’s almost an out of body experience for Jaskier, but he isn’t complaining, not in any way. It feels good, to let someone take care of him, for once. He can’t remember the last time it happened, besides with Mother Life. He can’t remember when a friend or lover washed his hair, can’t remember which of them was the last one to trail tender kisses on his shoulder blades, not in any sexual motion but rather out of comfort. 

Jaskier is old, and sometimes, when he remembers how much he has lost, how much he will still lose, it hurts. When he feels tenderness and gentle love, the quiet kind he has been trying to avoid and escape for the last two centuries, coming from Geralt, he almost sobs. Because Love wants to reach out and give in to the love offered to him, but Jaskier knows he can’t. Jaskier knows he shouldn’t. At the end of the day, Geralt is mortal. And Geralt will leave him, and Jaskier doesn’t want that pain. Not again. Not with Geralt. Because Geralt is special.

He isn’t Jaskier’s first love, he isn’t Jaskier’s first anything really. Except he is. There is something so confusing about loving Geralt that Jaskier doesn’t even know how to voice it. He is supposed to be a bard, a singer, a poet! But loving Geralt renders him wordless. 

“Move your arms,” the witcher’s voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, and Jaskier mindlessly obeys. 

Geralt’s hands on his skin are like cool water on a hot stone. It sends fire through Jaskier’s body, pulling at Love underneath, and another phantom heartbeat agitates his torso. Jaskier holds a moan at the feeling. He hasn’t been touched like this, or touched at all, in so long. He craves it, needs that closeness more than he has ever needed anything in his long life. And yet, he forces himself not to reach out, not to bring Geralt’s lips to his own. 

Geralt’s hands move up and down his back and torso, focused but still gentle, but he doesn’t reach below the waist. Jaskier is more than thankful for that. The smell of rose is strong in the air, and for the first time, he realizes that Geralt grabbed one of Jaskier’s favourite soap from the purchases Ciri made. Thankfully, he hasn’t looked into the pouch of gifts Ciri had left for him, but the mere memory of it makes a blush rise over Jaskier’s cheeks. 

“Everything alright?” Geralt is sitting on his knees next to the tub, looking at him with a tilted head. It’s unfair that Jaskier finds that simple gesture endlessly endearing. 

“Yes, quite,” he answers with a nod. “Thank you for all this, Geralt.” 

“You’re welcome,” Geralt shrugs. “You’ve taken care of me enough time, I thought I would give back, for once.” 

_Give back_. How surprising, to hear those words. Not that Geralt is selfish, Jaskier has rather always thought he was foolishly selfless, but he doesn’t give back in the same manners Jaskier does. Geralt has always been quiet in his friendship for Jaskier. What is it about Love that makes him want to do more then? Is it only because Love is awake in Jaskier, or is that Geralt when he loves, open and tender? Jaskier wants to believe it is the latter, he wants so desperately to believe that it isn’t the God in him affecting Geralt. Because if it is, then nothing of it is real, and the mere idea of it breaks all over again Jaskier’s heart.

“Where are you going to go next,” Jaskier avoids answering by asking another question. “Have you heard about any contract nearby?” 

Geralt hums, allows the distraction as he finishes cleaning Jaskier. “A few villagers have come up to ask about the witch that lives in the woods. They are afraid of her, and they heard terrible screams a few weeks back apparently. They think she might be torturing people.” 

“She isn’t,” Jaskier laughs slightly, reaching for the sponge and cleaning his lower half himself while Geralt stands back up. “Trust me.” 

“How would you know?” 

“I didn’t find you in those woods by myself,” Jaskier only answers. 

“I see. Then perhaps I ought to thank that witch, for bringing you back to me.” 

And oh, Geralt really shouldn’t be allowed to say such lovely things to Jaskier. He shouldn’t be allowed to look at the bard with eyes tender and mouth gently turned upwards. Love swells within Jaskier, singing and dancing, and it takes more than it ever has to not reach out and kiss Geralt, to not let the witcher know that Love loves him and there is nothing else that matters.

Jaskier can’t allow himself that weakness just yet. He doesn’t know if he could handle disappointment, if he could handle the harsh words that Geralt yelled out in anger again. He knows, _hopes_ at least, that Geralt would not do it again, not now that he has grown and has Ciri in his life. The fear still beats inside him though, and before giving Geralt his heart, he wants to forgot what it is like to fear. He wants to live again before he loves fully. They can both wait, they have before after all. 

“Perhaps,” Jaskier answers with a soft smile. “I don’t believe you’d think her a witch though.” 

“She is like you, isn’t she?” Geralt has his back turned to him, taking a large cloth. “I’m not a complete fool, Jaskier. I didn’t realize before, but I can smell it now, the way you don’t… You don’t smell human. You aren’t like anyone I’ve met before.” 

Jaskier feels his breathing stop, although it doesn’t affect him in any way. “You know then.” 

“I don’t know what you are, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by trying to guess. You have your reason not to tell me. I know I don’t deserve your trust anymore after what I said to you and—“ 

“Geralt, you have apologized, and I accepted your apology. I just need some time to..." how to say it? How to tell Geralt that Jaskier is still struggling with his very essence, with his nature? "To get back on my feet. To feel like myself again." 

"I understand." Geralt turns back to look at him, and his eyes are incredibly tender. "I will wait as long as you want me to." 

"Geralt..." Jaskier is, once again, at loss for words. "What we both..." 

"I know it's not the right time," Geralt says when he doesn't finish his sentence. "You know what I feel, and I can only hope that you may feel that way for me. I'm not asking anything but to be your friend again." 

"You have my friendship," Jaskier whispers. "You have my heart too, but... You hurt me, Geralt. You drove me away, and while I forgive you I cannot forget those words you told me. I need to trust you again before I can truly give you my heart again." 

Geralt nods. "I can only hope that I will earn your trust again." 

Jaskier watches him leave the bathroom, and he sinks back into the bath, his heart burning with love. Inside him, Love sings. 

They stay a few days in town, strangely enough, but Jaskier doesn't complain. It’s nice to rest up like this, to enjoy feeling the sun on his skin, and to play the lute again. He only plays when he is alone, in the room at the inn or outside the town. He doesn’t really want to deal with the looks on his hands, the way people look at him like he is an infirm and unable to do anything. 

In the mornings, Geralt and Ciri train at sword fight in the courtyard of the inn, and patrons often watch the witcher and his apprentice. Jaskier likes to watch as well, admiring the profile of his witcher. On the second day it happens, he notices Nora amidst the crowd and waves her over, smiling. 

“Heard about the training then?” He smiles pleasantly as she blushes slightly, sitting next to him. 

“Ciri actually invited me.” Nora is blushing even more. “She said she could teach me a few tricks.” 

“How lovely of her. I’m sure there are a lot of tricks my darling Ciri can teach you,” he teases gently. “Thank you for helping her pick out products for Geralt, it can be quite the experience, but you chose perfectly.” 

“I’m glad if your husband is happy with the products,” Nora smiles, and it’s Jaskier’s turn to blush. “Ciri told me he had quite the sensitive nose so I made sure to pick the lighter products from our shop.” 

“That’s quite kind of you. You are quite young to be handling such a shop on your own,” he remarks. “Are your parents not able to hold the shop anymore?” 

“No, they are,” Nora sighs a bit and watches Ciri with enraptured eyes for a few moments. “It’s just… Well. I have to have a serious job, don’t I? I’m already fifteen, I’m lucky not to have been married off…” 

He places a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You do not have to conform yourself to the destiny your parents have decided for you. You are your own person, and there is more to the world than just this town. I grew up in a sheltered town and before leaving to be a wandering bard, and I did not regret it.” 

“Are you encouraging me to leave town, master bard?” She asks this amusedly, but her eyes never leave Ciri as she fights against Geralt. “I wouldn’t mind it so much if…” 

She doesn’t finish her sentence and Jaskier chuckles. “She might yet ask. We haven’t left town just yet.” 

Ciri cuts the conversation short after that, but Nora comes back every morning, and Jaskier enjoys her company greatly. 

It takes Geralt ten days, ten long days during which he keeps a careful eye on Jaskier, makes sure that he is happy and not exhausting himself, to say they should leave and go find a new contract. Ciri pouts when he announces that they’ll be leaving in the morning and she slips out of the table as soon as she is done eating. 

“Where are you going?” Geralt asks her, but she ignores him, pushing the heavy door of the inn open. 

“She’ll be fine,” Jaskier says, as he pushes around the last bits of his food on his plate. He isn’t necessarily hungry, and the food isn’t the best there is, but Geralt paid for it, so he makes himself eat it. 

“She’s been sneaking out a lot since we got here,” Geralt grunts but sits back from where he had stood up. “You know why.” 

“Maybe,” Jaskier grins. “Why do you want to know so bad?” 

“She’s my daughter. I’m worried about her.” 

“Right.” Jaskier smiles gently. “It’s nothing bad, I assure you. Isn’t she allowed to have her privacy?” 

“I just want to keep her safe.” Geralt looks down and finishes his own plate. “She’s been through enough.” 

“And she’ll get through much worse,” Jaskier says, sadness in his voice. Humans’ lives are so short and even a Witcher’s life is short compared to his own. “But she’ll always have you, and she is strong. She was strong before you, and you’ve only made her stronger.” 

Geralt grunts and looks at Jaskier’s uncovered hands. “They are getting better.” 

Love looks down at the curses and sighs. Jaskier has been slowly accommodating to the way his body, his own sense of self, is rearranging itself. Music helps. And when he plays, when he goes to sit outside at night, long after Geralt is asleep, and he allows himself to hum softly along to the melodies… He feels Love so strongly within him. And it feels right. 

“Yes,” Jaskier murmurs. “They are. Thanks to you.” 

Geralt has been nothing but dotting. It’s a bit of a strange experience, but he has been taking care of Jaskier in a way neither of them is used to, but in a way Jaskier has been aching for since he met Geralt. He wants to hate Geralt for how much he makes it easy to be loved, but he can’t. When he sees the yellow eyes staring at him, full of warmth and desire, he feels himself stirring. 

Love is coming back to him, and it’s not thanks to Geralt, but it is and it’s confusing. Jaskier can only compare it to the first time he had been in love, and still. That first experience pales in comparison to what Geralt makes him feel like. There is so much love flowing in his heart, so much adoration running through his whole body that Jaskier feels a bit lost amidst it. 

“I’m glad to be of help.” Geralt says, and he slowly squeezes Jaskier’s hand, unafraid and tender. 

They are dancing around each other, and maybe that is what Jaskier is the most afraid of. Maybe it isn’t the words Geralt told him on that thrice-damned mountain that Jaskier fears, but allowing himself to love again. He remembers trembling, remembers shaking in pain. He remembers the first curse Love ever placed. 

“Do you still want to know?” Jaskier asks in a low voice, keeping Geralt’s hand in his own. “What I am. Do you still want to know?” 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Geralt starts, but stops at Jaskier’s look, and slowly intertwines their fingers. “Yes. I want to know all there is to know of you. I want…” 

“Please,” Jaskier begs, his heart beating in his chest again. “Please, Geralt.”

“I want you, Jaskier. I love you.” 

It’s a quiet admission in the loud inn, where people are laughing and cheering. The innkeeper is laughing and joking with patrons, and Jaskier can feel the warmth that comes from all of them, the friendly affection they bear one another. Families are sharing a meal and telling each other jokes, and children run around, dancing and shrieking. The strongest love remains Geralt’s, amongst all of that. 

His witcher, who had tried so hard to pretend he didn’t have emotions. His witcher, who had tried to push him away repeatedly, who had tried to break the bond between them. _His witcher._

“I love you,” Geralt repeats again, and he doesn’t look away from Jaskier’s eyes. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize this, and then I thought that you were dead and—“ 

“You grieved me,” Jaskier chokes. Geralt is bleeding all his emotions and Love is latching onto them, feeding on them. “You thought I was dead and you couldn’t find me anywhere, so you grieved me.” 

Geralt doesn’t even look surprised that Jaskier knows. “I did. I told Ciri all about you. I thought I had killed you, with those words I spoke. I regret them, I have been regretting them every day since we parted and I will never be able to apologize enough but—“ 

“I forgive you,” Jaskier pleads. “I forgive you…” 

“I love you, Jaskier,” Geralt repeats again, and he lifts their joined hands and kisses every blister on Jaskier’s hand. “If you chose to tell me, I would be honoured. I would be… I would be content being just your friend, and being allowed to walk the Continent by your side, but I… I want more. And I can only hope that you do as well.” 

Another choke erupts from Jaskier’s throat as he feels Love bursting from within him, running free and reaching for Geralt.

“Upstairs,” he manages to say around the knot in his throat that weighs him down. 

He slips his hand from Geralt’s and almost runs upstairs, back to the safety of their room. He can’t let himself be so unchecked in public. He has no idea if he could control himself if he got his hands on Geralt, but at least, here, in the privacy of their bedroom, he might not send Love all around.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, voice worried, but he can’t keep speaking. 

Jaskier’s lips are on his, desperate and needy. Love takes from Geralt, pulling at the soft mouth that is so willing underneath him. 

“I love you,” Jaskier sobs, and the tears on his cheeks are warm but he feels nothing but Geralt’s warm hands on him. 

“I’m here,” Geralt whispers and kisses him gently. “I’m here.” 

It shouldn’t feel so good, shouldn’t feel so freeing, to let Love cling and beg, to let himself be pulled out of his own body. He shivers and moans, and when Geralt maps his body with his mouth, Jaskier and Love blur together. They are one again, and Jaskier feels the heartbeat he had lost back in his chest. 

“You have yet to tell me,” Geralt rumbles when they are covered in a fine sheen of sweat but they can’t separate from each other. 

The very idea of not being in Geralt’s arms hurts Jaskier, so he simply pushes his head further against the naked torso of his lover. “Told you what?” 

“What you are,” Geralt smiles and caresses his cheek softly. “You don’t have to but—“ 

“Love,” Jaskier answers with a shrug. “I’m Love.” 

Geralt freezes, looks at him. “You are… Love.” 

“The god of Love, the whole concept… As long as I exist, as long as I’m alive, love flourishes in the world. I don’t really need to do anything,” Jaskier bites his lips a bit nervously, looking into Geralt’s eyes. “Please, say something.” 

It takes a few more seconds, but Geralt drags Jaskier back into a kiss, lingering and tender, and his eyes bear a tenderness that Jaskier feels echoing in his whole body. 

“Of course you are Love. If anyone is Love, it’s you. I must have been blind not to see it, for so many years.” 

“I wasn’t for a bit,” he tilts his head, sighs a bit. “Well, I was, but I wasn’t. It was a whole… separation.” 

“And I made it worse,” Geralt realizes with guilt building back in him. 

“It’s alright,” Jaskier is fast to reassure and presses kisses alongside Geralt’s jaw, soft bites that won’t leave any mark but which keep Geralt focused on him, on his hands and mouth. “I forgive you, please stop blaming yourself. It wasn’t your fault anyway. It started long before I met you, and I was hurtling toward it while we knew each other. I just wanted to be Jaskier, the wandering bard, the man who loved you, but I couldn’t. I’m Jaskier, but I’m also Love, and the two aren’t separate. I can’t keep them apart and I was still trying to do so. I shouldn’t have. But now… I’m healing.” 

Geralt touches his hands. “Is that a sign of the separation?” 

The bard blushes, looks away slightly. “No. My magic is not born of chaos, but it does still take a toll… Those are curses I placed on every mage that refused to help me.” 

“Help you?” The witcher echoes, confused, and kisses the blisters gently. “How?” 

“I… I demanded of them knowledge they didn’t have.” There is a frown on his lover’s face, and so he continues. “I asked them how to kill a god.” 

Geralt sits up so fast that Jaskier almost falls down, but suddenly he is back against Geralt’s chest, being held so much tighter than before. It isn’t oppressive though; rather, it feels safe and warm, it feels like being home after a long time. Jaskier melts into the embrace and when his witcher pushes his face against Jaskier’s neck, he feels the wet tears slowly falling. Geralt is crying, no sound coming from him but the slow trail of his tears are not lost. 

“Don’t leave me,” Geralt begs, “Please, you cannot die, Jaskier.” 

“I won’t,” he holds his lover tightly. “I promise. I won’t. I can’t, and I don’t even want to. I was just… exhausted. After centuries spent roaming this land, I thought myself… useless. Not needed anymore. But I was wrong. I was wrong and now… I won’t ever ask that of anyone again. I promise Geralt, I won’t leave you.” 

Geralt takes a few minutes of gentle reassurances to stop clinging so harshly to Jaskier, but they still don’t leave each other. Jaskier falls asleep with Geralt’s lips on his forehead, and his hands around his waist. 

He wakes up with dawn when Geralt shakes him up gently. “Time to get going,” he says, and caves in, giving Jaskier the kiss he is begging for. “Get dressed, Love.” 

Jaskier’s heart beats gently in his chest, a quiet rhythm, and he gets dressed. His hands, which had been so scarred the previous day, are nearly spotless now. His curses are being undone, and he feels lighter for it. Love should never be a curse. 

He joins Geralt in front of the courtyard, his lute on his back, and he is slightly startled to see four horses waiting there. A brown mare he recognizes as the new Roach, who has the same clever eyes as any of the previous Roach, and three other horses. 

“Are we expecting anyone?” Jaskier walks closer and steals a kiss out of Geralt, who rolls his eyes but chases after his lips anyway. 

“You need a horse too, and so does Ciri.” 

“Alright,” Jaskier isn’t one to argue with that kind of logic. “But the fourth one?” 

“Nora is coming with us,” Ciri announces as she walks out of the stables with the last saddle. “I got the last horse last night.” 

Nora is standing behind Ciri with a shy expression, but her eyes are determined anyway. She has a bag thrown over her shoulder and Jaskier smiles fondly. It looks like they are getting in a bit of mischief. 

“I suppose your parents aren’t aware that you are joining us?” He asks as Ciri puts the bags properly on the horses and Geralt stays silent. 

“I left them a letter,” the girl answers with a shrug. “They wanted me to marry and…” 

“You decided to follow your heart. That’s quite a brave thing to do.” 

“Isn’t that what love is all about?” She asks this with a knowing glint in her eyes, and suddenly he laughs. 

“Absolutely.” 

He can’t wait to see which one she’ll turn out to be. She is too young yet, too sheltered, to know. She’ll be great one, perhaps greater than him, but for now she’s just a girl in love, and for now she is one of his people, so he places a kiss on her forehead. 

“Let’s go,” Geralt grunts. “We need to get out of here before anyone notices that the girl is with us.”

They leave town quietly, and when they are far enough, Jaskier pulls his lute out of its protective casing. Ciri looks at him with a smirk, but he just winks back at her and she laughs. He feels at home, surrounded by love. 

Slowly, he strums a few note on his lute, and starts singing. His voice breaks at first, unused for so long, but it doesn’t take long for Jaskier to warm up properly. Nora hums alongside him as they ride further into the day. They are a strange little family now, but Jaskier exchanges a look with Geralt and he knows that this, this is his place.

Over in the mountain, Life hums a tune, knitting the eternal thread into another row. Love is back within the world, and with Love’s loves has come her newest child. Beauty will grow, and when she finds Life, she will understand that she wished to exist, to give more of herself to the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I love them. so. much. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! Leave a comment or kudos if you did :D Come talk to me on tumblr @saltytransidiot, I regularly publish stuff like The Queertcher verse (The Queer Witcher verse), and i also sometimes post extracts of the fics I'm working on. 
> 
> Oh and! I joined the Geraskier Midsummer Minibang, come check it out on Tumblr :D We need betas and artists still and everyone is writing amazing stuff, and we have amazing artists too! It's a lot of fun, so don't hesitate if you want to join in :) We would be more than happy to welcome in new people!
> 
> Stay safe, hope you enjoyed this fic :D


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